


Conversations in the Fade

by Etugen



Series: The Story of the Wolf and the Dragon [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brotp, Friendship, Gen, Implied Relationships, In the Fade, Multi, Post-Trespasser, The Fade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-01-09 00:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12265500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etugen/pseuds/Etugen
Summary: The man before her sits grand and tall. Coming into his natural role of leadership has suited him perfectly. He looks different, his face changed not with age but with the burdens of having thousands follow his command. The cozy fur effortlessly thrown over his shoulder is not the same from their last meeting. It is darker, almost ebony, although not without its reddish hue. A satirical reference to his centuries-old role in his people's culture, perhaps. Or an allusion to him finally claming the slander on his name his own as if to prove an end-of-the-realms prophecy right."Fen'Harel," she addresses, the hint of a slight tease hidden in her voice. It is rather childish, but he has deserved it. "You've grown out your hair."Years after her retirement to a simpler life with simpler aims, the Herald of Andraste gets a visit from an unexpected old friend.





	1. Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

> A more of an alternate universe take on DA:I that i have been toying around with in my fan art. This is my attempt to write a series on what happened to my canon Inquisitor Adaar after Trespasser & tie my Lavellans as regular characters to my canon quizzy's story, and also experiment with an idea that I'd had while playing the game about why a random non-mage qunari would be able to use the anchor as they did.  
> But mostly i'm a sucker for Solas x Adaar bromance and it does not get the love that it deserves.
> 
> I hope that you find this to your liking, and enjoy!

A chill washes over her as she opens her eyes.

She is in her bed but it feels alien to the touch, her room dark but a glow that she cannot quite pinpoint where from hurts her eyes. The eerie feeling of waking up to strange surroundings lingers on her chest but it is the same room that she has been jolting up to nightmares for years now. She turns her head to the right, the delicately carved limb and the crossbow that she has accepted as her own extensions lay to the barren wall, undisturbed. Her cloak hangs on the edge of her modest footboard, resembling a benevolent spirit guarding her dreams, ready for her slumbers. Her daggers are left undisturbed on their holsters, and her digits can find the cool of the opulent knife's hilt as she slowly slides her hand under her pillow. Her eyes graze over the trinkets, herbs and charms that she has hung around for protection and good luck, over the sketches that she has nailed on the buttercream-colored walls, and her eyes catch a glimpse of her mother's Isstaaras-Saar, hung and collecting dust in the dresser, its door forgotten ajar.

It is her room that she has tried too hard to make her own, without a doubt, but something is not right.

The glow is still there. Her eyes start to ache. She has to shield her face with her hand to relieve them of the unidentified source of the stress.

It is her left hand that serves as a mask. A soft smile settles on her features. She has not seen her left hand in eons.

She also has not consciously been in the Fade for around the same amount of time.

After a short while she realizes that her cloak on her footboard is not actually a cloak but is indeed a benovelent spirit watching her lay. She had wondered how that analogy had crept up her mind minutes ago. Her face still shielded, she shifts her body closer to the shadowy formation, using her right hand to crawl closer to this creature of the realm. It shifts ever so slightly, and she feels a radiance of annoyance in its moves.

     "You sure blend into your surroundings," she says.

     "You sure take a long time to figure things out," it responds.

    "I apologize for not realizing sooner, I am not a mage," she confesses.

    "You could have been, were you not so daft," it responds.

She mulls the statement over. Her profession had not been up for debate ever since she was a few feet tall and could make water freeze. She remembers the pain in her mother's eyes and the stern voice of her father forbidding her from ever doing that again.

    "Who are you?" she demands.

    "I am Guidance." it responds.

    "Shouldn't you be patient and kind?" she wonders.

    "You have kept me waiting for a long time," it shrugs. "And I have never been kind, not especially to you, have you not noticed?"

She sighs, giving into the truth. It is starting to aggravate her nerves, but it is also right. It's not a reality that she has ever been able to properly accept, but aside from Cole, most spirits have not been kind to her. At least not in this lifespan. She misses Cole.  
She misses her friends. They have been kind to her.

     "So, are you going to get up?" Guidance snaps her out of her thoughts. "I can only be patient for so long."

     "Sorry, yes," She replies, shuffling out of the bedsheets and her feet find the chilled marble floor to lift the rest of her body up. "I understand that you are here to take me somewhere."

    "Obviously," Guidance starts to move towards her terrace door. "That is what Guidance does. It _guides_ ," It passes through the wooden block. "So daft."

She opens the door in its wake. It is her garden that she tends to, the one on the edge of the forest, but with the flowers fuller, the plants taller, the colors brighter and objects veiled with the slightest gleam. It is a true sight to behold. She has missed the Fade. Bull would have been distraught to know her longing for it.

     "Stop staring around, and follow." Guidance beckons. "Once we are done for the day you may gawk as much as you wish."

Obediently, she halts her environmental observations and picks her pace up after the faint trail left behind the spirit on the tall grass. The dark gust of unknown Fade material dissapears into the thick sea of brawly tree trunks as it dives into the forest. "Come on!" It calls through the branches impatiently. She follows.  
They walk for an indefinite amount of hours beneath the lush leaves of the tall bodies of trees, enveloped in semi-darkness. Guidance does not say a word, and she is grateful. It gives her time to enjoy her dream-like surroundings, and she knows better than to pester spirits with questions beyond their purpose of existence. Guidance is meant to guide her, not give her the answers to the inquiries forming in her mind. It is not Knowledge.

After a good and certain amount of time she picks up the courage to ask the only question that she knows it may give a response to. "How much further to our destination?" she wonders.

    "Won't be long now," Guidance assures her. "It is a reunion long coming."

She does not have time to interrogate that unusual statement when they step out of the wooden ocean into an inclined field of temperate grasslands, occupied with some short flora here and there. In the middle of the empty space stands a chess table trapped between two high chairs. The legs and the backs of the seats are fashioned in elvhen engravings, and the one on the left is occupied by a distinctly tall figure. It is a familiar figure.  
She hesitates in her step. She checks her hands to make sure that it is not just a dream but a reality in the Fade. She never has her left arm in her dreams. The faint glow that regularly inhibits the veins on the stump of her arm have crept upon the nerves of her hand like it had long before, emitting a slow shine.

     "You might think that it is fear that you are feeling," the spirit of Guidance settles itself on her shoulder. "But content is at the end of this particular road." 

She feels reassured with the clump of darkness perched near her face. For a second she wonders why it is not shiny and light. Then she remembers all that has been her life, and finds it appropriate that it retains such a look. Albeit gloomy, it is calmer and more serene this way.

She takes a deep breath and puts forward a determined step, and the spirit fades away. It has done its work. It is needed elsewhere.

She continues down the unmarked path towards her destination, towards the seated figure waiting for her arrival. She knows who they are. A friendly grin settles on their features.

    " _Ha'falon, aneth ara._ " They welcome her as she stands in front of them. She is unsure of her actions. It has been a long time, and she is conflicted in her feelings.

This is not unseen by the party before her. "Come, sit." they instruct. 

In a dreamy daze, her body follows the instruction without waiting for her mind's consent. She is unfazed upon making this discovery, she had suspected such a thing in their last meeting and the faceless companions of her lifetime had confirmed her suspicions in the depths of her mind.

She looks at the wolf with narrowed eyes, and the wolf smiles back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to my miserable attempts at elvhen goes to Project Elvhen by FenxShiral  
> -  
> Isstaaras-Saar -> qunari mage armor  
> ha'falon -> old friend (elven)  
> aneth ara-> informal elven greeting  
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> I'm really stressed. The last time I posted fanfiction online was when I was 15. I'm in no way a writer. This is really scary. Overlooking things is my personality description so there WILL probably be typos and I'm really sorry.  
> Also I really enjoy concept art Solas


	2. Chess

The man before her sits grand and tall. Coming into his natural role of leadership has suited him perfectly. He looks different, his face changed not with age but with the burdens of having thousands follow his command. The cozy fur effortlessly thrown over his shoulder is not the same from their last meeting. It is darker, almost ebony, although not without its reddish hue. A satirical reference to his centuries-old role in his people's culture, perhaps. Or an allusion to him finally claming the slander on his name his own as if to prove an end-of-the-realms prophecy right.

    " _Fen'Harel,_ " she addresses, the hint of a slight tease hidden in her voice. It is rather childish, but he has deserved it. She eyes his eloquently matted hair, resting in a sublime bun at the back of his head, casting subtle shadows on his copper complexion richened by the sun. "You've grown out your hair."

    " _Aban-ataashi,_ are we resorting to name-calling now?" he responds while his face mocks resentment. "Yes, I have. It is rather difficult to make oneself inconspicuous when the Herald of Andraste herself has issued a warning of Fen'Harel's return, with a quite imaginative description of one's barren head." He unconsciously runs his hands through the shaved sides of his temples. It is obvious that he is still a bit uncustomed to the lack of space above his eyes.

A small chuckle escapes her lips. She has not heard her Qunlat nickname in a while. An infantile wordplay on the meaning of her name and her race, attributed to her by the Qun after the events of a time when she was younger and full of the fight against her own kind threathening her people.  
A fight that the wolf in front of her had abrubtly stopped with a flick of his hand. She had actually been a bit scared of him in that instant. She isn't anymore, not in her age and definitely not in the Fade.

    "Well, Varric was immensely angry at you." she informs him. "It was only fair that he got it out someway. And he issued all of my announcements and my writs at the time."

    "It is fair to say that I deserved it," The lean man spreads his body further in his chair. "It was a matter that was quite non negotiable."

    "You deserved a lot of things, from a lot of people." The sentence slips from her mouth without her getting to apply any sort of filter to her thoughts. It is fine, though. It needs to be said. "I am in no way the gravest victim of your _leave of absence_." The sarcasm on the words is definitely not going to be lost on him.

     "I would rather not talk about _that_ in this meeting, Meraad." His eyes travel down to the chess board filling the space between their seats, his face stern and his eyes hold the slightest twinge of regret in them. His attempt to avoid the topic is curt but also desperate. "It is only day one, and we have so much time." His hand signals the marble pieces in front of them. "Let us play."

     "I haven't touched the stuff in a long while," she warns him. "Our first match might be unexpectedly short, I'm afraid."

    "It is fine, _imekari_." His smile forms again on his face, a soft one reminding her of the past, when they would lounge in his study to go over ancient history together, letting the door to the courtyard open to feel the summer breeze and hear the constant chatter of Orlesians and the people of Ferelden arguing over the alien flora that they had carried back from the Frostback Basin. "Within your talents, nothing is above your grasp with a little practice."

She chortles an involutary snicker at the term of familiarity that he has chosen to address her in her own language, and it is less than presentable. "Look at you, talking exactly like my father." It is not surprising, however. Not a father, per se, but more of an older brother. She has always felt that air about him in her presence, it was why they had bonded as they did. He had been her elder and her teacher, and her protector in their battles. Why should he stop now?  
"Guidance would disagree with you, though." she straightens in her seat to take a better look at the pieces in front of them. "It has come to the conclusion that I am stupid."

The breath in his chest erupts with a hearty laugh. "Yes, I suppose that it would do." He says, his hand moving towards the ebony pieces in front of them, lingering above, gently tracing the ends of his long fingers on top of each figure. "It has outlived most of our species, as creatures before us needed it as well as us, and it must be quite tired of each generation straying from the paths laid upon them countless times."  
She cannot hold the question in her lungs any longer. He senses it coming.

    "Why are you here, Solas?" she inquires, her face demanding, hurt hidden in her eyes. "It has been _so long_ , and I.." her words trace off. She is unsure of what to say. She has too many questions. She cannot decide which one to ask first. She finally settles on a statement. "I am confused."

    "Would you not ask why _you_ are here, instead?" his question seems to be the only one that makes sense in her mind at that moment. He is right, she should have asked that and that alone. "For I have already spent more of my time in the Fade than in your world, and it had not been different in our time together as well." He is right once again.

He had always been smarter than her, if not wiser.

    "Alright. Why am I here?"

    "It is a question that I know, but will not answer until you figure it out right." His hand delicately drops to the side of the board, being careful not to disturb the objects standing still on the cool, polished surface. The slow vibration caused by his contact ever so slightly trembles the carved stones. She does not feel the impact herself, but her imagination caters her with the sensation. She realizes that it provides her another allusion to his role yet to come. A rather cliché one at that; his actions trembling the pawns below his grasp. It is rather pedestrian, but she enjoys threading meaning into her surroundings. She has used it as a coping mechanism for a long while now.

His remark has been simple but annoys her nonetheless. The ever so present voices in her consciousness are silent as well. She hates it when they do this. Everything always turns out to be a puzzle for her to solve, an unnecessarily glorified rite of self discovery is required in every answer she seeks. What she would give, for once in her life, to receive the information she needs without any complications or struggles. She has always preferred and favored the direct approach.  
That is why Bull is most kin to her, even with all their differences, her love for all things beyond and his detest for anything magical, even with all his secrets and his spying, he is the most direct aspect of her life, the one that never hid anything from her and the one that always gives her everything without a second thought. Her _kadan_.

_Elves_ , she scoffs under her breath, but then gives in with a sigh. They are her kin too now, have been ever since her choice to give herself unto their false gods. Especially the wolf before her, now he is more kin to her than everything else combined. This is known knowledge to both of them. She knows that is why he has accepted to show himself to her, even though she has yet to fathom the real reason of this whole ordeal.

He feels her frustration through the air, radiating towards him. It is hard to miss. " _Falon_ , you must understand," his hand on the board rises again to make a move on the pieces, "for I would've had thoroughly enjoyed making your journey easier by providing you with the results to your inquiries, but it is you that Guidance has led here, not me, and if the solution to your troubles had been as light as you wish them to be, it would have guided you to a much simpler resolve and provided you with the answer outright." He sighes. "Rather, you are here, with me, one that you saw as family but are going to be ultimately forced to face against. Isn't that already a sign that things are never as simple as we desire them to be?"  
He is right, he is always right. He had always been smarter than her, if not wiser.

    "I shall begin by making the first move, to give you an incentive for our upcoming game. I would not be pleased to see you shy away from your tasks with the feeling of inexperience, it does not suit you." He moves his pawn forward.

    "Thank you," she breathes in relief. In the presence of masses and her underlings she has never failed to emit leadership and trust, but he sees. He knows better. He is always right. She mimicks his move.

He raises his gaze to stare into her pupils, not through her but inside her, and she feels his command again. "I trust you to keep our interactions between us, for now."

She nods. Even if she had a choice in the matter, she would not have chosen to disclose their reunion to her associates, not yet. It would raise a level of alarm that she does not want to raise around her.

She realizes, with a pleasent surprise, that she is dreadfully happy to see the Dread Wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this and one more chapter in my hands so why not post them now amirite  
> -  
> All credit to my miserable attempts at elvhen goes to Project Elvhen by FenxShiral  
> -  
> falon -> friend (elven)  
> aban-ataashi-> sea dragon (qunlat)  
> meraad -> inquisitor's name, means "tide" (qunlat)  
> imekari -> child (qunlat)  
> kadan -> heart/where the heart lies, also a qunlat term of endearment reserved for close friends or lovers (qunlat)


	3. Tea

    "I am dying."

Their second meeting is no more different than their first one. She has woken up in her own room like before, Guidance has ushered her out of her terrace door to her well-cared garden, and this time she has followed it without any question and without taking any time to adjust to the sensation of waking up in the Fade. _As half-witted as you are, you're also a quick learner,_ is Guidance's remark as it chaperones her from the house to the field. It is close to a compliment, and for some reason she feels proud.

Now the Dread Wolf does not bring his gaze up from the board at her as he is absentmindedly developing his strategy in the game.

    "I have been feeling it for a long while now. The anchor's expiry date is not ridden from my wound." She crosses her legs in her seat, her right hand reaches her left to rub it out of its marginally throbbing discomfort, if not only to feel the deceptive materialization that is her left hand as much as she can while she is still there, before she wakes up. It is neither a confession nor a plea. She has had years to accept her inevitable death. She hopes that this is the answer to their small sessions in the Fade.

    "True, that you are. But it is not the reason that you are here." He shifts his mage to the corner. It is her time to make her move.

She lets her eyes wander on the stone pieces. She is no closer to figuring out her unexpected and frequenting visits into the Fade, so she does the only thing she can; concentrate on the game. "You would have to work on it, if I were to live," she says.

    "I would, and I very much plan to." He watches her reluctant hand as she decides not to make the move that she was going to. She can feel his stare fixed on her blank gaze. His eyebrows raise, he is visibly startled. "Were you assuming that I would not?"

    "A lot more things would come easier to you if I was to be removed out of the board." She comments on his question as it is a simple trivial piece of information given to university students during their first war strategy assignments. She twists her wrist in circular motions, and the irritation creeping up her arm settles down somewhat.

    "When I told you that I was taking no joy in doing what I have to do, I was not granting you a consolation prize formed out of pity for your inevitable failure to stop the world's fate." His voice is deeper, it is more silent, she feels sadness in his words. "I meant it when I told you that I wanted you to live the remainders of your days in comfort, and I fully intend to help you actually live the rest of those days."

She moves her hand to grab the knight, though he reaches out and holds her hand instead. "I am not a monster." It seems to serve more of a reminder to himself than a reassurance made to settle her.

She gives his hand a small squeeze, and she smiles. "You wouldn't think it to be true, but I never actually thought you to be." She is not only referring to him now but to him before. The legends, the curses, the gossips and the idle chit chats of the Dalish all around their travels.

He knows all the things that she is referring to, and for the second time in his life, a Qunari proves his beliefs to be wrong.

He unconsciously releases her hand from his grasp, and that is when her nostrils are filled with the warm scent of herbs brewing.

    "Arbor blessing," It reminds her of home. Her mother showing her how to tend to the garden, their Marcher neighbors finally showing their acceptance of the Tal-Vashoth family settling at the end of the high field of their village by commissioning imported plants from her family's greenhouse and sending baked goods & gold in return. Her delivery routes, a dwarven mother sneaking a small batch of Sweet Ruin in her bag that her son had brought from Orlais that one time, her father's satchel too big for her tiny arms filled with drying leaves and seasonal concoctions. "Spindleweed."

    "Ah, yes," His eyes produce a few blinks to rid them out of the haze that her previous statement has put them in. "Among other things. You will remember the list when you wake up."

Her line of sight catches a table a foot away from their location. A delicately sculpted teapot and two wide bowls of cups matching its design rest on its ragged surface. Vapor escapes from the end of the teapot's spout. She has not noticed them before, but she is sure that they have been there back before their first meeting. She has just been too occupied to notice the whole set until now. "You detest tea."

    "And you absolutely adore the stuff." He lifts himself from his seat with the help of his lithe arms and strides over to the table with the brew on it. His elongated fingers curl around the handle of the teapot, and supporting its top with his free palm, he pours it for both of them. He then sets the teapot to its original location, gently carries the now full cups with care enough not to spill them and hands her one before settling in his previous place on his side of the chess board.

    "You need your strength and this shall help your dreams as well as your waking hours when you prepare it for yourself." He instructs.

    "You're drinking it as well."

    "What good host am I, if I do not accompany my guests in their pleasures?" he chuckles and raises the cup to his lips. He tries to hide his grimace at the contact the thick liquid makes with his tongue, but she has his expressions memorized from long before. It makes her briefly laugh.

She knows that the primary herbs in said tea are brewed for healing mixtures. She softly blows on the surface of the warm refreshment and carefully takes a sip to keep her tasting buds unburnt. The tea smells and tastes like her mother forcing her the elixr she made for her spiking fever during seasonal changes. She revels in the taste. She wonders if he needs a particular type of healing as well. She guesses that his heart might hurt at her sight. She must be a reminder of what he has to sacrife in order to achieve his goal. Who he has to sacrifice.

    "Have you decided on your move?" He asks. "It seems like there is something that you want to discuss with me," he adds after a moment of pause, taking another sip from his cup. Sometimes it feels like the wolf does not only hold inevitable control over her actions, but is also in her mind.

    "It reminds me of my mother," she responds referring to the tea, dismissing the lingering thoughts on her mind and moves the knight that she had intended to move before his hand's interference. The elderly murmurs in the back of her mind agree. There is a time and and a place to talk about each topic and while it definitely is the place to talk about the person of his biggest heartache, it certainly is not the time to vocally remind him of it.

He picks up on her reluctance, and does not prod it further. "I have come to realize that we have not discussed your family much in our time at Skyhold." He sets his teacup on the corner of the board.

    "Nor have we discussed yours." She states, continuing to slowly ingest the tea in her hands. The warmth prickles against the cool of her silver skin, creating a pinkish hue on her knuckles and at the end of her fingers, and she enjoys the sensation. The toxic glow of her mark is dimmed and reflecting against the surface of the cup. It reminds her of an infected sunrise pushing thrugh the cracks of a mountainous terrain.

He laughs at her remark. "My _family_ history is more or less carved on all the ancient walls of a civilization long past, vigorously studied by timeworn scholars and preserved by the very much opinionated Dalish, is it not?" The tips of his fingers goes to his pawn. "A true Vashoth's childhood in the Marches, however, is not a phenomenon commonly documented. _Dirthas su'em or mar'arla_."

She sighes at his request. She hates how good her Elvhen is getting. While only knowing bits and pieces and formal greetings from her past encounters with the Dalish, and some phrases from the studies the wolf has assigned to her before, now she has the whole lexicon at her disposal, ever since she has submitted her will to the all-mother that had walked out of the sea. She has so far used this to her advantage. Understanding what little intel they have been gathering from the remaining of his people without needing proper translation has proven itself fruitful, but she realizes that her comprehension of the old tongue is much more clearer here than it is in the waking world. Smoother to decipher, she can almost think in the language in a dismissive manner. She wonders if it has anything to do with the Fade, or the false god in her presence.  
She wonders and hopes that the silence distracts him out of his question and yet the Lord of the Tricksters eagerly awaits her reply, is intent on hearing her stories and the silence has done nothing but feed the curiosity resting in his eyes. She gives in, and searches for a point of her life to start her tales. She decides on talking of her parents first. It is not, she guesses, a good idea to keep the old elf waiting. Some parts of the legends, if not all, should be true.

    "Mother and father," she starts, "their story would be a best-seller if Varric ever got to put it down on paper, one would Cassandra re-read until she has every letter memorized behind her skull." The imagery earns a short laugh of approval from the man in front of him, and she can see him nodding in confirmation.

    "And the whole theme of their love makes them sound rather cliché, when in reality their past should invoke horror instead.  
A _saarebas_ and her _arvaarad_ , a mage slave and the keeper of her invisible prison. They hunt together and travel together and live together and _breathe_ together, and on the day that he finally removes the stitches from her lips, he betrays his people's beliefs with every fiber of willpower that he has, and she loves him for it." She feels the holes, the tips of her stubby child fingers tracing the markings on her mother's lips as she cradles her to sleep, the holes small yet so deep, so insignificatly little and yet heavier than anything she has ever seen in the world and it is as real as to her now in her memory as it was when she was still in their care and filled with their endless love. "It was unpleasant for them when I first came into my talent. Father forbade me from casting and watched me close for many days to come, Mother silently cried in her room a fortnight." She remembers how scared her mother was, how scared that her daughter would end up the same, it had taken a lot of kisses and promises and distracting family outings from her father to convince her that _it is going to be alright, no one will ever take our little hissera away from us, hush my crystal grace, we are free from them and we shall never bow again_.  
"They wanted to make sure that if the Qun ever got to them, ever got to me, they would not be handing over a slave of magic to them." She realizes the cold cup in her hands, it lays empty in her grasp with its contents warming her insides. She does not claim to be a storyteller, and she does not want to reduce her whole life into one single piece of entertainment for him, does not want to give him that pleasure, so she cuts short on her words. "They were lucky. My magic did not amount to much, not enough to be a proper mage, especially with no teachings to cultivate it further. They made me take up the blades, as well as other hobbies as a distraction. As a result, I am no different than anyone without an aptitude for magic."

Wanting to refill her empty cup, she makes an attempt to lift herself from the chair, but a gesture of his hand dismisses her action as the elf rises up himself. His hand demands the empty object in her clutches, and she realizes that her grip on the thing has tightened in her telling of her past. She relaxes her digits and hands him the cup, noticing that his is emptied out as well. He moves onto the teapot and pours them both another filling of the spicy freshness, and she is baffled at his desire to drink more of the stuff that he loathes so.

    "You are thinking of something. Don't hold back now," she questions. She has seen the tensing of his lips when she had claimed her status no different than others, and she wants to know why. She does not understand why, after all these years, he still keeps on rejecting the idea that she might be as same as any other creature that he deems less worthy, especially since now she is practically no different than a slave to his every whim.

    "Your insistence on not seperating yourself from the common crowd has stayed with you after all of your experiences, and yet you never asked yourself how is it that you have survived, not even once." He hands her the cup, and settles himself down, and their appereance puts itself into a loop of a small while back. The chess board, the tea, the steam tangy in her eyes, the hint of a smile dangling from his lips.

    "The anchor kept me alive. Technically it was me who took it all to the ground."

    "You, an _oxman_ of a land so distant, and of an origin so alien to our old magic, yet when such power fit for gods nests itself in you not only does it not destroy you whole the instant it takes hold, but it also weaves itself into your being as I did my best to halt it from picking you apart." As his sentence is formed she grimaces at his use of the offending word, but has learned by now to let it go; such an old creature is prone to latch onto some of its more modern mistakes. "It should have killed you dead, but you changed the world with it. How do you think it is that you have survived for as long as you did?"

     "Luck, willpower?" She jokes but does not get the reaction her joke tries to stir. "You?" There is a level of acid in her inquiries. She is still bitter about her incidential submit to him, and feels his charity to be a bit insulting, even.

    "Yes, but ultimately no." His glare on her is one of disapproval, as if he expects her to figure it out already by now. When she does not probe any further, he gives in with a sigh. "Somehow, somewhere, deep in _there_ ," the motion of his wrist is a quick one as his finger points to her stature as a whole, "the magic of the orb recognized the one in your core. They were familiar to each other, it seems to be the only explanation."

She processes his theory with half a mind, it does not seem too realistic that old elvhen magic would be kin to her dragon's blood, but then she has also drank from their all-wise Well and that has settled in her body quite naturally. He must have a valid point in that statement somewhere, she decides. 

    "Sorry for not making the connection, obviously I am not quite the mage." Backtalk is the only thing that can come out of her mouth at that point.

    "You could have been, were you not so daft," Solas responds, a wicked smile curling the corners of his mouth to bear his radiant teeth in wake of his devilish taunt. 

To this Meraad laughs, it is a beaming and a glistening laugh with joy that she has not seen in herself in a long while, it is the liveliest sound she has produced in a few years and her eyes actually join in on her mouth's joy as well, and the Bringer of Nightmares is happy that she too is happy in this second at least, and they bare their teeth to each other as they laugh and laugh and laugh the taunt away.

And when their laughter dies out they stare at each other in silence, more as two old friends than old allies that have turned onto one another. In that moment they are the dragon and the wolf, and they have bared their teeth and barked at one another as an act of mutual respect, and for the first time since they have reunited, she relaxes in the comfort of her elven seat. She sips her tea, now long forgotten and cold, but it does not matter as it is the warmth of reuniting with her friend that keeps her company.

    "I would like to hear more of your mother, and her relation to this tea that has made you think of her so, later on," he requests, "if that would be alright."

She nods, and for a minute rests her eyes to the stillnes of the Fade. From his requests she gathers that he needs a link to anchor himself to the material world more than using her as a past-time distraction, and figures that her memories are as good as any other way for him to do that. She does not want to deny him of his want to feel a bit more real, a bit more of a person, with the slightest hope that it might sway his mind from his plans even a little, in the end.  
The chess board lays in front of them, half-played and forgotten, and she has half a mind to remind him of his turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _SOLAS IS NOT A MONSTER,_ I yell to myself.  
>  \------------------------------------------------------------  
> All credit to my miserable attempts at elvhen goes to Project Elvhen by FenxShiral  
> -  
> dirthas su'em or mar'arla -> speak to me of your home (elven)  
> [Marie du Lac Erre's] Sweet Ruin-> tea biscuits sandwiched with cream and jam (and/or chocolate) from Orlais  
> saarebas -> "dangerous thing", name given to qunari mages (qunlat)  
> arvaarad -> keeper of a qunari mage, similar to a templar (qunlat)  
> hissera -> hope (qunlat)


	4. Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the views and kudos and the subscriptions! honestly you guys give me the courage to keep on posting this

_She stares at the lifeless body in her hands and rises her watered gaze to the bigger pair of eyes staring at her in understanding pity._

_It is a white winter and her skin shivers for it is still young, still struggling to grow into its elevated resistance against nature's changes. White specks fall down on her arms, relatively small framed for her kind in her age and yet more or less as wide as the shoulders of a Child of the Stone's, freckling her dark leather coat in contrast with the freckled cheekbones of her own. Her lips red from her bites and the cold, a red pouting smudge against the silver of her skin and the pure of the snowed-in background, ready to crumble down in heartbreak at any given second. A tear follows the path of her nose, down her chin, and crashes itself onto the corpse laying before her, adding onto the wetness of its dead skin._  
_The broad woman in front of her brings a hand to her dampened hair, her fingers fading into the white of her locks. With gentle strokes to her hair, the woman lowers her visage to face the cherub before her that is nestling the small dead carcass in visible pain._

       
_"It is a harsh winter, and she was a sickly nug," she explains and the tears welling up in the corners of her child's eyes accumulate to form comically large drops. "It's alright, love, you cared for her as much as you could, she was happy while her life lasted."_   


       
_"But y-you could bring h-her back," stammers the kid in tears, nudging the lifeless nug closer to her elder with newfound hope giving fire to her limbs to move faster in the cold. "Y-you could revive her and we could keep her warmer until Wintersend."_   


       
_"But I can't, my hissera. Once death takes one's soul, it is disrespectful to disturb them with trivial problems such as life." The woman lowers her hands onto the remains of the female nug, slips her palms under its cold-stricken body, rids it from the child's grasp attentively, with respect. "You have tried your best in doing the right thing, and that is alright." A smile forms on the mother's lips and her eyes reflect sadness, "You want to fix it all for you are still young and fresh, but most times it is wiser to know when to give up rather than fighting against the inevitable."_   


_The tears in the springs of the child's eyes drop larger onto the snow, and she sniffs and makes muffled noises as they trace down, but she nods in acceptence. She looks at her mother with trusting eyes and pleading glances to be held. She gets up on her feet as she sees her parent rise with the dead nug in her possession._

       
_"Come on, my love, let's pay our respects and bid her farewell." The larger of the Vashoth starts walking to the back of their greenhouse, to the wide opening at the beginning of the nearby forest. Her offspring follows her, still in tears and sadness in her heart but ready to learn how to leave the dead behind._   


In the distance, a foot steps forward to follow the path their feet leave in the white icy blanket covering the ground, but halts to a stop as soon as it lunges forward. Instead the owner of said foot fixes her gaze to the mother and child before her, her eyes clouded with longing. The hand of the elf next to her rests on her shoulder in comfort, in reassurance of what it is that they see.

    "It looks so _real_ ," she comments in disbelief. Her heart races in ways that have not raced in forever. The scene before her looks too close to feel, too close to touch. Colors brighter and shapes more defined than how it was at that time. She lifts her hand in their direction. So close that she could just reach out and-

    "It _was_ real for you, once." He comments on her surprise, disrupting her thought process. "This is not a faint reminder of what used to be," He shifts his gaze back to the parent and child walking further towards the forest. "This is what you have lived, what you have seen, recorded in a fragment of the Fade with every detail to rest here undisturbed for an eternity."

The Tal-Vashoth watches herself as she and her mother dissapear behind the silhouette of the glass greenhouse to bury the nug that had passed away. She remembers that day, now better with having just seen the scene play out before her, remembers how she had felt and how her mother had been a pillar of wisdom in that instance. Her mother who has seen so much, her mother who makes everything better. She isn't with her in the real world anymore, but she never left her mind and for that she is glad.

    "She is a wise woman, you mother." The Dread Wolf says as if he reads her mind. She suspects her face does not hide much in seeing her.

    "It was the first time that I saw a being actually die," The horned woman responds, her gaze never leaving the trees. "An actual being that I exchanged love and care, not a plant nor a story that my father had read to me. I was so intent on bringing her back, as if I had cried enough or begged enough to mother nature she would give my nug back to me." She shakes her head with a futile attempt to rid her eyes of the small droplets of saltwater stinging her eyes. "Mother would not have it, though. Her lesson was not only a lesson of death. That day, she taught me the horror in bringing back things that have long passed."  
She remembers how her mother seats her on a tree stump after a burial ceremony of her own creation, one that involves burning and scattering and thanking the creature for its time in life, and tells her tales of her dreaded life back in the teachings of the Qun. She remembers the stories of her mother being forced to cling on the souls of near-dead Qunari and bring them back into their earthen bodies, pulling them back out of the Beyond, the horrified stares of those who manage to make it back, how they are never the same after their revival in the battlefield, and the punishment that follows her in any kind of failure. _For a formation that is too afraid of anything beyond their comprehension, the Qun is ready to bend any boundary for the sake of utility,_ she thinks in contempt.

Far ahead, a thick trace of smoke rising up to the clouds catch their notice. Both turn their head towards the dark mist that dissipates towards the sky. Behind the fogged glasses of the greenhouse it is possible to see Meraad's mother moving and kneeling and placing her hands in the blanket of snow, a faint white glow emitting from her burried palms. A nice melody of semi-unknown origin resonates from the figure. It is not entirely in Qunlat and she understands only fragments but the words are etched into her mind still. It is an old song of the dead that her mother has picked up through whispers from elder saarebas in her captivity. Her mother has such a nice voice. She closes her eyes to listen.

    "What does your mother believe in?" Solas asks her suddenly, curiosity dripping from his voice.

She indulges his interest, she knows what she has promised him in their earlier meeting; a chance to view another's life, to see that a creature of this world that he sees a poor reflection of what was in his time actually has a life and memories and value in their existence. She does not waver from her promise just to be able to enjoy solitude in her past. While it is tempting, her endgame is that it might make him doubt his plans in the long run. She feeds off the hope residing in that possiblity.

    "She believed in nature, mostly." Meraad responds, watching the ceremony play before her. "She said it was nature who was kind to her in the Qun, it was only nature that seemed to make sense and responded to her prayers. Nature always bended under her hands and shaped with her magic, and somehow everything she had asked of has come true in one way or the other." She smiles at the memory of daily rituals her mother has taught her, leaving offerings for nearby animals, feeding the soil with leftovers and making charms out of homegrown plants to hang in front of their doors. "She once told me that nature does not choose; she is a protective mother that attracts and reacts, she creates us and takes us and gives us our lives and acts as a provider for us to enjoy the opportunities that she gives us. Choice is left to us with consciences to have, and we are obliged to make the best of them to honor all her gifts. Which is to lead our lives to the best and fullest, and thoroughly enjoy the control we have over ourselves."

    "What do you believe in?" The wolf asks this time, his stare intent on her.

She halts at his question. How does she answer to the question that wants her to lay out the belief and the dilemma resting in her core? She licks her lips, scrapped and bitten with the intensity of that day's encounter. She sorts out her passing thoughts to answer best his inquiry.

    "Do you remember that day in my balcony, where you questioned how someone of my kind made the choices and actions that I did?" The memory of that day is as clear as any other that she has seen in here, highlighted by his bias but sweetened by the declaration of his respect towards her. A day that has offended her and gained her a friend at the same time. "I could not answer your question truthfully then. I can now. Every choice I make, every step I take is the result of what my mother has seeded in me. Never once she leaves my thoughts, every decision that I make is influenced by my pretending of what she would do were she faced with the same conundrums." The dragon-blooded woman breaks her gaze from the now almost invisible smoke to catch his. "What I believe in is nature, just as she had. I'm just not so sure that nature believes in me anymore."

The white ground before her seems all too inviting in the wake of her confession to the would-be god next to her, so that is where she lowers her view. She is mildly surprised to discover that her feet have no weight on the frosted veil, make no prints on it and leave it undisturbed. Everything in front of her seems so real that she almost forgets that this is all a fragment of something past. She misses her mother. She wants to try to make it all real but now her mother is one that has long passed, and it is disrespectful to disturb them with trivial problems such as life.

    "Would you like to move on to another one?" The tall elf next to her suggests, still shorter than her at a head or two's length in the least, but his posture strong and potent.

    "Yes, please." She takes up his offer with too much eagerness, her voice seconds away from loosing its stability. "It seems that we have dwelled too much on this particular moment and it made me want to lose myself in it for a lifetime or two."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wintersend: stands for the end of winter in many lands, celebrated at the beginning of the second month of the year
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A take on Meraad's childhood memories and her 'religion', of sorts
> 
> But really, what does a Vashoth believe in?


	5. Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all and guess what! i have uploaded two of my pieces in connection to this fanfiction and overall universe in which i have based this series on, so here you go! I hope you enjoy them <3  
> [Solas & Meraad chilling in the Fade](http://melissuer.com/post/166942250132/another-sketch-of-my-dragon-age-inquisition-canon)  
> and  
> [Angsty Meraad](http://melissuer.com/post/166808236697/a-sketch-of-my-qunari-inquisitor-from-dragon-age)

It is their nth meeting in the Fade, they have gone through countless pots of tea and countless games, though neither the pot remains unfilled nor the board worn with the movements of its pieces, and finally, she claims her first victory against her mentor in the field of chess.

In her younger years she would exclaim with joy over the victories she had won; such a juvenile act but she was but an offspring then, her blood still warm and the elven magic in her veins still coy, years away from truly exhausting her physical body's expiration date. In her younger years she would rise out of her seat and raise her fist to the unending skies, and though her earlier years were long past her, in that exact moment she feels younger than she had in years, and she performs the same acts of her youth as she did before. Movements and sounds that she has not found strength in her to make escapes from her mouth with delight, and she does not realize nor care for the crudeness of said movements and sounds, and this pleases the Dread Wolf so thoroughly that he chooses to express it in a proud chuckle and an affirmative nod.

" _On'viraju, da'len!_ " He announces, raising his slender hands to a slow clap. "You have improved yourself exceptionally from our first game until now, and to be perfectly honest I myself did not see this win coming." He shifts his head to the side, his curious gaze intent on her delight-smitten face. "There is wisdom in admitting defeat and fault in overconfidance, and in the instance of this match, I am proud to say that I have wisdom enough to admit the first and am embarrassed enough to confess my fault in the latter."

" _Ebasit kata, venak hol!_ " She exclaims with delight, and playfully slams her hand on the side of the board. " _Anaan esaam Vashoth._ "

" _Teth a, imekari. Maraas kata._ " Solas alerts her out of her mirth, his accent precise and his phrasing without fault, reminding her just how informed he was, contrary to the age of his deceptive looks. How old must he be, to speak a language too foreign to the muscles of his elvhen mouth with such precision and ease. Even the Qunari which she has had run-ins did not speak their own language like him. " _Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun_."

" _The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless_." Meraad recites his Qunlat in the common tongue, the words stinging her lips like poison, the words of the founder of the Qun never ceases to give her the feeling of a boogeyman under the bed. "Teaching me a lesson and including my name as word-play? Smart move." She mulls over the statement a minute. "An excerpt from _the Soul Canto_ , in the _Tome of Koslun_ , interesting. With your tenacity to spit regular insults to those of my origin, I would not peg you for one to recite religious Qunari text, _hahren_." The Vashoth crosses her legs and leans her head on her other hand in mock interest, the first still resting on the board. "Oh teach me, wise mentor, would you desire me to understand that this win is but an exception, and it will not happen again since the Sea remains the same no matter what the Tide does?"

The Trickster God smirks at her interpretation, relaxing his shoulders on the back of his seat, his fur mantle spreading on the chair and by doing so widening his posture; a Lord easing on his throne, a wolf spreading his fur. "Just because Ashkaari Koslun's philosophy was misinterpreted both by him and his successors, does not mean there are not wise lessons to be taken from their scripts." He faintly snickers, as if he is letting her in on a secret joke that she has no way of understanding because she simply was not there, and at that moment she wonders just how much he knows about her ancestors. "And no, I do not desire for you to understand that, the lesson that I desire you to learn holds a different context. A captain steers their ship into a sea that they have made countless journeys through. The tides change, the winds change, the skies change. Each time the captain steers the ship into this sea, is it the same sea?"

"I suppose," She answers, after a minute of reviewing his question. "The conditions change, but it is still the same sea with the same terrain, the same islands, the same expectations. The time may vary between the journeys with the variables, but the distance of the intended journeys will always remain the same."

"That is right, but not entirely so," He comments on her answer. "It is the same sea; the same foundation, the same properties, but just as any living creature, it grows; it evolves. It may not be the living but it is alive, and depending on affecting circumstances, each time one meets it, the sea will greet one differently." He picks up one of his pawns and steers it through the swarm of ebony and ivory pieces on the board, just as one would steer a ship in the vast bodies of water. "No matter how many calculations are made and how many notes are taken, and may i remind you that they _should_ be taken for nothing is more rewarding than studying one's opponent, the element of the unexpected should always be remembered when facing the sea. While a victory means a step closer to figuring out one's advesary, it does not guarantee their defeat in future clashes, which is a thing you already are aware of, so maybe do not express your joy with such prematurity."

She knows his intent, she understands the meaning of his words behind his lesson. It is a reminder that no matter what transpires in these moments of truce, these moments are nothing but instances of temporary truce, and outside in the material world, they are still foes, standing against each other on the edge of impending doom. Grief washes over her upon this reminder, and she realizes she really, truly does not wish to face him when the time comes. Not an inch of her body requests such a thing.  
Catching her offguard in her misery, his warm fingertips find the cool surface of her extended hand. She realizes that her gaze is resting on the tall grass under their feet, and they rise to meet his narrow ones. He has leaned forward in his seat, sadness nesting itself on the faint wrinkles of his eyes, a regretful sigh escaping his lips.

"But my Tide, oh, my exuberant tide, still you have so much joy in your heart and how I love to watch you soar." He exhales, slipping his fingers under her palm and resting his thumb on the middle of her knuckle, a gesture that is too familiar, a gesture she knows too well. It is the same gesture offered to her by him in all her moments of fear of the unknown; the first time being in the future when she was reluctant of pressing on in the Redcliffe Castle after releasing him and the others from the red lyrium cells, later in their first attempt at Haven to shut down the Breach, later after their talk in the temporary camp before him leading them to Skyhold, and many more times after that.

There is warmth in that gesture, assurance in that touch, protection in the feeling, and yet sadness in its core. It confuses her, it confuses _the hell out of her_ , a confusion that would cease to exist if only she could figure out the reason of these meetings in the first place. Each time she thinks that he wants to reconnect with her and establish the familial ties that they had established once before he seems to want to trick her into defeat, and each time she fears that he wants to trick her into defeat he seems to remind her of their bond that exists when one does not let fate decide their family but rather chooses them.

Meraad is sure that the old god before her understands how bewildered this situation makes her, and with that thought she fills with sudden anger and shifts her hand away from his gentle grip. An action which she immediately regrets upon seeing the dissapointment forming on his face, dissapointment that she knows is not aimed at her, but at himself. She guesses, no, not guesses but _knows this time_ , that she is not the first to pull away from his hands with the hurt of his words.

"Sometimes, I find myself reminiscing the days when you were still with us," is the sentence that escapes from her lips. It is time to direct their talks to the one thing that both had been avoiding since their first gathering; one for the sake of sparing the other the hurt and the other with the fear of asking. The wise voices in the depths of her consciousness agree with her once again, this is a topic that cannot be avoided. "When we were all together, when we were home." She is giving him a chance, opening a door for him to ask her what he has been fearing to ask without him making the first move. Like he did to her with the first chess move of their first Fade meeting. He always extended her his understanding at the things she feared, and now it was her time to do the same.

"How is home?" He asks, reluctance halting the letters of his wording. He absentmindedly starts stroking the canine bone of his pendant, who still remains on his neck, the pendant which she has seen countless times in the past and both in the years that followed until now, and she knows for a fact that while before she has seen the pendant on him, in the later years she has seen it in places and on a person that is _not_ him. _For him it must be what my hand is to me,_ she thinks, _what he cannot have in his waking world, the Fade consoles him with a reminder of it._

" _Home_ , is how it has always been, full of conflict, always at war, never fully safe but always alive. But that's not what you want to ask is it?" She gestures his business with the pendant dangling from his neck with her hand. "Not who you want to ask about?"  
He closes his mouth shut, and for the first time in their conversations, the Bringer of Nightmares is the one who shys away from carrying on with the conversation.

"I know that you have been wondering, Solas, you do not need to fear to ask," Meraad informs him, sympathy audiable in her voice. "And I would not be able to refuse a true answer, if you wished my response, anyway." She jokes and to her surprise her joke actually sticks, and she manages to steal a faint laugh from the shying wolf in front of her. "So, see? Nothing to fear."

"How is she?" He asks this time, with more determination in his voice.

"Saying her name won't call her ill luck to the clan, Solas, she's not Fen'Harel. There is no shame in saying her name."

"Ellana." The syllables roll out of his mouth, and it is strange both to him and to her, having not being used by or heard from his mouth even after all these years. "How is Ellana?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my GOD i'm really sorry about the late-ass update, I have been going to school and working and also helping out my aunt in her new restaurant, but now that I do not need to help her anymore, my workload has relaxed immensely and I will be frequenting my updates and related fan art!  
> thank you for sticking with me so far i love you all
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------------  
> All credit to my miserable attempts at elvhen goes to Project Elvhen by FenxShiral  
> -  
> On'viraju, da'len -> good work, young one (elven)  
> Ebasit kata, venak hol. -> it is ended, wearying one (qunlat)  
> Anaan esaam vashoth. -> victory belongs to the vashoth (qunlat)  
> Teth a, imekari. Maraas kata -> be warned, child. Nothing has ended. (qunlat)  
> hahren -> elder (elven)  
> Ashkaari Koslun -> The founder of the Qun


	6. Ellana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight? nsfw descriptions at some part of this chapter so even though the rating of this fic is set to Mature, i thought i'd give a heads-up. i might probably change the rating if i plan more detailed descriptions of sex in future chapters, idk yet tho
> 
> and also, as with the previous chapter, I have uploaded a new piece of art that is related to this series, so if anyone would like to see that, here it is!  
> [The Herald's Shrine](http://melissuer.com/post/167753320682/the-heralds-shrine-please-be-gentle-with-me-this)

_"Ellana."_

As Solas repeats the name vocally one more time, possibly trying to get used to the name that he had treated as a forbidden curse all these years, rolling the l's and the n's in his tongue with caution, realization starts dawning on Meraad. The name in his lips irks her ear, scratches the depth of her brain, this one corner in her mind growls in irritation as each letter found their way out of the suave elf's oral cavity and into the Faded world. Once more, she hears him say it, in a whisper this time, with more confidence and a bit of bafflement perhaps, probably not believing that he has gotten permission from Meraad but more importantly from himself to dare to speak her name again after all the things he'd done to her. And once more Meraad is irked, the scratch inside her head increases, the growl in her mind rises to a roaring scream. The slight gleam that she can detect in his eyes for sure is a reflection of him reminiscing their time together, most certainly remembering the aftertaste of Ellana's lips on his parts, his hands in the auburn of her hair but _no, he does not deserve to remember her as such, he should not get to disrespect her again, leave her pieces scattered on the floor like a spoiled child and expect mamae Meraad to pick them up and try to glue them back together, watch her fall, watch her change, watch her cry and scream and realize that holding her and showering her with consoling kisses will not be enough, will never be enough-_

Meraad starts to think that opening up the topic of Ellana's well-being might not have been a good idea, after all. Her initial hype upon reuniting with her long lost friend had caused her to misjudge her anger towards the man, made her think that she would handle talking about Ellana calmly, but now Meraad knows that even if she manages to forgive everything else that he has done, she will never forgive him for that.

 _Oh gentle daughter, here comes the courting man,_  
_Oh gentle mother, put the wheels in motion for me,_  
The voices in her mind start singing that old Elvhen courting tune in the common tongue, in a tone the vashoth can't pinpoint if is mocking him, or mocking her.

"Ellana is.." Her voice trails off, not sure exactly how to answer to his question. What does she say? Does she say _'Ellana is the shell of an elf that once trembled the spirits of the Fade'_? Does she say ' _Ellana is no more, she still exists but not in a sense that **matters** , her touch is cold and her eyes bleak and her soul trapped in herself and it's all because of you'_? How does she lie to the man that holds the bonds to her limbs and her mouth and her vocal cords without permission to lie?

"She is.. alive, taking one step at a time." are the words that find their way out of her mouth after much deliberation. "It's been hard on her, Solas. Hard for me, hard for all of us, but most of all hard for her. You did leave her to a dying world without leaving any say in her part. She is alive and taking care of herself and honestly that is the best I have been hoping for a long while now." She sighs, and looks to the elf in front of her. His eyes gleaming not with exciting memories but with the foreshadow of a single tear in each this time, a manifestation of the unchangeable sadness in his heart, on his creases the shadows of a thousand regrets. "I am sorry for your sorrow, Solas, I am," Meraad starts and she really is sorry no matter how mad she is at him, he is her kin and she does love him after a fashion, "but surely you expected an answer not so different than this?"

"As you say, I had not expected a complete recovery from the, ah, inevitable consequences of my choices, of what I must do, but I had at least expected for her to.. move on." The Great Wolf replies, and it is a refreshing surprise to realize that even he stumbles on his words and forms unfavourable sentences in his vulnerable moments.

"Ah, she did try to move on, _falon_ , I will give her that." Meraad comments on his wish, probably with a bit more gusto than she has intended, but honestly she _does not give a flying fuck at that moment._ "She did try to make half a decent life out of what you left her with, for a while."

"And was it with you that she tried to make half a decent life out of what I have left her with, for a while?" His question is immediate, without on-field deliberation, and possibly practiced beforehand in its intention. _Ah, he knows._ So Ellana had told him about the past, at some point in their time together. How much he knows, Meraad can't pinpoint, but what does it matter now that he _knows_?

And in that moment she wants to roar at the dreaded wolf in front of her, she wants to scream _Yes, she did try to move on with me, and I allowed her to do so, I took her in my arms and placed her on my surfaces, grabbed her face in my hands, planted my tongue in her parted lips and licked the crevices of her every inch, imprinted her scent on my skin; an embrium so fresh it **heals** my soul, ravaged her tones with my hands and with my mouth, buried myself in her folds and devoured her sex until every drop that would spill for you was sucked out of her dry, and would you like to know my dear friend, would you like to know how she watered again for me, how she opened for me, how she reached and begged and screamed for me as we fucked and fucked and not once graced your name with her lips?_ and she wants to describe exactly how she has taken her over and over after everything that he has taken from Meraad herself. She wants to say _you took everything from me, you took my power and my being and you took her, but now I have taken her back from you and I will take everything you wish and you will be as I am and as she is._ Though she can't, even if she wants to, because those are all lies and his command does not allow her to utter a single word of false claims.

 _Dhulaman o targen'jol, dhulaman Elvhenor,_  
_Dhulaman o manala, on'ala Elvhenan,_  
The voices keep on with their mock-song in her head, switching to elvhen and back.

Instead, Meraad says, "Did you think I would jump at her the second you destroyed her with your words, seeing an opportunity to claim her as a vulture rushing down inbetween the meals of quillbacks and hyenas, as if she is unclaimed treasure?" and she wants to add that unlike him who sees everyone an unsuccessful replica of what they could've been, she actually values Ellana's person but she does not voice those words because while he can control her lies and truths, he cannot control her thoughts. "No, we have not been involved after the Conclave. it was not me but Cullen. You know that we all could guess that he was always infatuated with her, and he was there when you were not. She seeked shelter in him, but he was not enough. No one is enough for her anymore."

"I wish that they could have had worked out." Solas confesses after a minute for silence, and the truth of his wish is visible in his voice. "Cullen is a good man, and I wish she could have had a new life, a proper one that I have not tainted with my childish pride of thinking that I could afford to be with her without harming her in the process." Meraad does not know what else he has been mulling over in his mind, but after another minute of silence, he adds, "She never told me what happened, you know. She did say that you two had a past before the Inquisition, but she did not specify anything. She said it was your story to tell, if you ever wanted to."

A slight smile forms on her lips. So Ellana had kept that from him, had not released that piece of information to her elven lover that knew more and understood more than anyone and everyone they know, and Meraad has a leverage over him, something she know and he does not. She can guess how frustrated that must make him feel even though his face does not betray his feelings at the particular moment. Finally Meraad gets to tell him a story that he has been wondering for a long while, his partner and his Inquisitor, his queen and his slave a sharing an intimate secret kept from him.

So she tells him. In the most basic interpretation that she can come up with, she tells him. The intimacy of the details, the secret of their feelings she wants to keep to herself, both as a memento of simpler times and as a reassurance to her that there are certain things that even the Lord of Tricksters cannot acquire.  
"We had started crossing paths long before our age, before our troubles, when our youth still drove us to gold and adventures and to bigger dreams." Her first visit to the Dalish clan that had settled to the edge of their village, Ellana seeing her off to her first patrol with Valo-kas, their trysts whenever they could cross each other's paths, all of it is clear in her memory. Two lives not spent committed and together, but two lives spent united, in sync.  
"All of it ended, though, at the Conclave. Neither of us could bear to keep at it." Now a sea of blonde locks cloud the visions in her mind, freckles on dark skin and a spirit blade, a warrior with a posture so composed that it would put Andraste to shame. "She had a sister, I'm sure you have been told. Maelle. The First of her clan." Silent but pleasant conversations in the grand gathering. A promise of return after a quick patrol to check the ongoing security of the grounds.

A message from one of her lieutenants of a strange occurance witnessed around the Divine's chambers.

The interruption. An abomination. The orb.

The explosion.

 _"What are you doing here?" says the Elvish seaweed,_  
_"I am courting your daughter," says the elegant seaweed,_  
The song enchoing in a chorus of whispers revert back to the common tongue.

"She was at the conclave, her sister. Among others I was lucky to have met. And a single moment took them out of existence." The Herald stares at her hand again. Guilt. She knows that in reality it is not her fault, but a combination of an old god's pride in freedom and an abomination's arrogance in its desires to rise to the ranks of one, but in the end it is this hand that raised the Fade unto the world and helped perish thousands. "She ended it. Not out of spite, not out of anger, but out of understanding. After my release from prison in Haven I did not contact her, did not have the face, the courage and honestly the want, and she understood. Wrote me a letter, wished me well, promised to be a friend if I ever wanted and sent me on my way. And we did not meet again until her arrival to assist the Inquisition at Skyhold." A faded parchement of a letter with precise penmanship, neatly rolled into a scroll and sealed with an unmarked balm, purple-ish brown in its hue.  
"Its funny," She thinks out loud, the hint of a tear forming on the corner of her eye, but dries out before getting the chance to trail on her cheek, "it is her who lost her blood, but she confessed that it was me who lost it all in there. That's why she ended it the way that she did. She is the gentlest soul in that fashion, you know. And she is right. She lost a sister and I lost everything."

Solas, who has been listening without interrupting and with a learning glance, gets up and picks her cup from on the board where she has left it. In his other hand is his own. He walks towards the table with the pot that harbours the healing mixture. The pot is not there anymore. His movements are slow, his eyes misty, contemplating the newly gathered information from the vashoth. Lives built on top of each other, relationships replacing one another, hurt upon hurt and loss upon loss rising in a grand pile of grief and never-ending mournings. Two lives already destroyed, trying to mend, and the Dread Wolf had forced himself in the middle of with with the hubris of thinking that he is above them all. And his contribution to the pile of grief that they have gathered. The rift in which he has pushed his biggest love.

"And you ended her."

Without any retort to the accusation directed at him, the would-be-god slowly grabs the metal container that has replaced the pot at a moment unknown the them both, and pours a thick liquid inside their cups. As he heads back to their chess board, Meraad can smell the pungant smell of _Maraas-Lok_ inside the cups.

The song in her mind covertly slips onto her tongue as she is handed her cup back.

 _"E, mahn amas arashalan?" dirth dhulaman Elvhenor,_  
_"Avy ama as i'em," dirth dhulaman galanor,_

_Dhulaman o targen'jol, dhulaman Elvhenor,_

_Dhulaman o targen'jol, dhulaman Elvhenor,_  
_Dhulaman o manala, on'ala, on'ala,_  
_Dhulaman o targen'jol, dhulaman, Elvhenor,_  
_Dhulaman o manala, on'ala, on'ala,_

_On'ala Elvhenan!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to my miserable attempts at elvhen goes to Project Elvhen by FenxShiral  
> -  
> the song "Dhulaman", translated by FenxShiral -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7826417  
> Maraas-Lok -> qunari alcohol
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> as promised, a new chapter with my more frequent update schedule!


	7. Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok yes i messed up again i am posting another chapter late, but hey, I am actually working on the proper Solavellan part of this whole series and will publish it as a seperate story soon so that's not bad news, it is?
> 
> Anyways, I hope that you all enjoy this chapter! It is a bit different from the rest.

The cool wind alerts the hairs of her unclothed skin as she gazes out the door of her garden, towards the start of the thick forest, and a voice beckons from her bed.

"If you get back to bed, I'll bake you some more cookies," it suggests.

The silver woman straightens her posture by putting an end to her lean on the side of the entrance, though does not turn her head towards the source of the voice. "Did you know that cookies don't exist in the Qun?" She answers instead, her eyes still transfixed to the forest, her voice far away to her own ears. She should down her draught soon, she thinks to herself, if she wants to sleep sound and block the voices and the visitors.

"What, really?" The person on the bed asks with audible disbelief. "I mean, don't they have bakeries there? Or, like, Mums or Grans baking treats for their little grandkids or something?"

"Well, there are no mothers or grandmothers, so no, there would not be any children or grandchildren to bake them for as well," Meraad answers with her amused tone slipping inside her words, making the inquirer chuckle softly. "Even if there were, it would not matter as any possibility of needing to make cookies simply does not exist in the system."

"Yeah, right, forgot that the Qunari snatch little kids away from their parents and all that," The holder of the other voice snorts in derision, the voice feminine but thick, unlady-like and perfect for its owner. "I mean, that explains how you enjoyed my cookies even though when they were _monumentally_ shit back in the day. I get it, you enjoy the concept of them." The voice raises its questioning tone. "Why not the cookies, though? Everyone has cookies, cookies are the nugs of pastries! You can't step into a bakery and not see one."

The Vashoth crosses her arms in front of her chest, her ears locked onto the questioning voice but her mind distant, away in the green of the leaves. It's tempting to go, tempting to revisit, but she is keeping herself back, holding herself back because she is tired and she is angry but most of all, she is scared, she is scared because little by little she starts to understand. "Cookies, cakes, these pastries were born out of excess batter. Leftover dough. The Qun does not have excess batter. The Qun always bakes the exact amount it needs."

A thick, loud roar escapes from the person in the bed, and it turns into a fit of laughter and this extracts a pleased chuckle from Meraad's lungs as well. The person laughs and laughs, the blonde of their fringe shivers on their forehead as Meraad forces herself to rip her gaze free from the chunk of the woodlands and turns to get the source of the laughter in her sight. As the laughter in front of her slowly dies and transforms into small collections of suppressed giggles, she smirks. "What's so funny?" She asks, taking a step towards the bed.

"Well, you went out there brooding and made it all sound like a legendary mercenary catchphrase or something," The giggler points out inbetween muffled snorts, then puffs up their chest to look bigger and sound bigger, furrowing their brows in mock anger. _"Run for your lives, fools, for the Qun always bakes the exact amount it needs. Har har har,"_  They imitate an imaginary monster in a low voice as they crawl in the bed on their knees and wave their arms high, _"My blade will be the last kitchen knife you'll ever see, because the Qun does not have excess batter!"_

Joining the laugh herself, Meraad approaches to the edge of the bed in a nimble fashion, places one knee on the mattress of the bed and the unexpecting party falls back on their elbows, losing their balance from the sudden shift of weight. Her smirk grows wider as she slowly crawls on top of the fallen person, her body curving and arching as she traps the frail body underneath her bulkier frame and gets comfortable on top. "Is that what you think of my race, Sera?" She asks, her head leisurely tilting to the side, eyes stern on the blue ones underneath her gaze. The cool limb exquisitely carved from pale jade extending from the start of her elbow ends in a palm resting mattress underneath, next to a face holding a playful smile. Fashionable, that limb, not suitable for war, but enough to land a few punches in a bar brawl or to hold a body in bed. Perfect for home use. She has a whole collection of them now, all for different purposes and all enchanted to move as if it was flesh and bones, of course. Endless time and an expensive title does not hurt a woman's personal endeavours, after all. Paired with Orlesian fashion and Tevinter magic, having connections all over makes one's life easier.  
She endulges in all the little things, well, more likely the big and expensive things, as she believes she deserves that treatment after all that she has been through. Some might call it an unhealthy coping mechanism but she has always enjoyed the benefits of luxury and to be honest Inquisitor Meraad Adaar has not given two shits about her health in years.

The elf underneath her lifts her chin defiantly, the smile on her freckled face reaching the blues of her eyes. "What if I do? What if I see your race as big, bad barbarians with muscular arms and scary brawls? All glistening with sweat and whatnot? What're you gonna do, ooh, spooky barbarian?!"

"Well, then, Miss Red Jenny," The spooky barbarian addresses her purposefully,-and chuckles when the expected and frustrated _Friend, that's Friend you know it is you've been a Friend for maker-knows when, Meraad!_ exclamation slips through the elf's lips-, "I'll just have to prove you right by showing you how much of a barbarian I am with my glistening sweat and muscular arms, won't I?" She finishes her threath-slash-suggestion, her voice deep, and her free hand sliding through the naked thigh of the sandy woman inbetween her legs.  
Meraad nods affirmatively, the smirk never having left her face, when the breath of a protest hitches in the throat of the protester as the Vashoth strokes her index finger along the folds of the rogue's clit downward and upward, teasingly slipping and pulling out two digits slightly through her entrance, then lazily toys with the skin around it. "Would you like me to show you how much of a barbarian I am, Sera?" She asks, closing the distance between their faces. She can see the ghosts of lines slowly starting to make themselves known in the creases of the corners of the elf's eyes, and wonders for the hundredth time why Meraad herself seems to be the only one spared the lines of age while everybody around her starts to feel the impact of the years one by one.

"Yes-I-would-thank-you-very-much!" Sera responds with a silent exclamation to her current lover in their bed, and as the larger woman lowers her body to make contact with the smaller body underneath it, the Herald tries to concentrate all of her attention to the warm-blooded creature she is currently dominating instead of her newly found fears conquering her thoughts. Her tongue grazing thin, familiar skin is her searching for connection, her bites on an exposed neck is her trying to reach out to someone to associate with, her moans masking desperate screams of help, needing help, needing to understand, needing to escape and jumping at any distraction she can get her hands on.

Bull is not there, Bull is generally not there anymore but Meraad knows that the ex-Qunari knows as he knows everything else. She knows that he understand but feels as if this is the only thing he seems to understand about her these days and it pisses her off that her _kadan_ cannot comfort her anymore. She is being selfish and destructive both to herself and others as a result and she understands it, she understands that she is pulling Sera into a whole other matter of deception and lies unrelated to Meraad by playing on the lively archer's fascination of her but she needs the attention and she needs the need, she needs to hold on to those she holds dear because honestly, she is scared of losing them too.

Wasn't it Bull that had said that what's important was what she _needed_ , anyways? It's true that she is being self-destructive and selfish and indulging in unhealthy behaviour, but Inquisitor Meraad Adaar has not given two shits about her health in years so it does not really matter, does it?

 

* * *

 

The carriage rattles due to its contact with a larger than average stone on the ground, and she is jolted half awake from her dreams, her hand falling down from under her cheek resting on the side of the window. She absentmindedly averts her gaze from seat to seat and out into the fields, as she is unaware of her surroundings.

"Keep sleeping, my dear, you will need to get your rest if you're to perform adequetely at our intended destination." An authoritative voice commands her to slip back into slumber, but she knows this voice and can detect concern in its pitch. "Your current sleep cycle obviously has not done your face any good in the latter days, we will need to get you some cucumber treatment in our next stop. To keep up appereances, as you can understand, you shall look your best to be a paragon of divine exaltation to the masses."

She sighs obediently and shuts her eyes closed, letting the gentle rocking of the vehicle slowly lull her back to sleep, freshly wetted greenery fills her nostrils, and the last thing she hears before her consciousness drifts of is the Grand Enchanter's voice pointing out that even though she has her debatable differences with their religious monarch, it is the most appropriate decision on the Divine's part, if not mot cunning, for the Inquisitor and the mouthy rogue to be taken out of that wretched forest and moved to the Inquisitor's properties in Kirkwall for the preparation of a truce-offering Satinalia celebration.

_The Inquisitor steps into the reflecting surface in front of her right after the fall of the Saarebas, without hearing the protests of her loving partner nor the trusted Tevinter mage begging her to take a breather 'before running off to hit that stuck-up bald egg in the head before he gets himself into harm's way', but what they don't know she knows, and her fears are entirely different than those of her companions in said mess. She has known for a short while but still she has decided to keep her suspicions to herself, for she does not want to raise further havoc than they already have to deal at that particular moment. And if her suspicions are true, if the one who she has started to call kin is indeed who she thinks he is, it is not his life that she should be fearing for, but rather those of the ones that threaten his._

_As she steps out to the other side of the portal she is greeted by stone statues of Qunari warriors frozen in mid-motion, horror visible even in their stone eyes as their limbs and weapons stay suspended in defensive stances mid-air, and she wonders why is this scene so familiar to her and all of a sudden she hears the voice ofthe Viddasala roaring to who seems to be the wolf that the Inquisitor is searching for, telling him that it has ended and he has lost, and she hears the apostate elf's voice correcting the Viddasala, informing her that no, nothing has ended, she should take back the remainder of her forces and retreat to her Qunari masters, there is nothing for her to search there but of course the Viddasala does not listen. The Inquisitor exlaims with all the air in her lungs to stop the horned offender from acting up on it but of course the Viddasala charges towards the elven general, who turns the Qunari into stone without as much as a glare which is weird for Adaar because she remembers that it was the flick of his hand that did the trick but apparently she remembers wrong, the Lord of Tricksters turns her attention towards her now that he has spotted her and a mildly surprised pronounciation of her name reaches her ears. Fear grabs a hold of her heart and she feels in clench inside her chest, the ancient voices of elven ancestors scream in her ears, her blood pumps faster and she worries that it will gush out of her eyes, they water as if to confirm her worry but it is just tears that fill her orbs._

_As the ancient elf in front of her steps closer to her, her reflexes kick in and its either fight or flight, she has not ran away from danger in a long while, she is no longer scared of death but apparently she is scared of **something** because her hands tremble and before she knows what is going on her right hand slips Hakkon's Mercy out of its sheath and stabs the false god through his heart. Fen'harel is shocked, he is confused and she can tell it from her face and for a moment she is colossally afraid that he will get mad, but blood gushes out of his mouth as his expression saddens, betrayal visible in his eyes he falls on his knees and with disbelief Meraad lets go of the avvar god's blade of mercy, takes a few steps back, still scared-_

_Fen'harel's expression calms instantaneously, he forces himself back to his feet and as he tests his limbs to gather back his balance, his hands grip the hilt of the dagger in his chest and pulls it forward. He cleans the edge of the blade onto the mantle on his shoulder, flips it over and gestures the hilt towards the silver Vashoth._

_"How many times have you had this dream?" He asks, as Meraad moves closer to grab the dagger out of his hand, her movements hesitant but her mind understanding that Solas has invaded her dreams due to her consciously worked-on absences from their meetings in the Fade, and this is, indeed, a dream._

_"Ten? Hundred? I have not counted, to be perfectly honest." She places the dagger in her hand back to her sheath, her eyes purposefully avoiding th bloody mess that is the other party's chest._

_"Do you want to kill me this much, that you fantasize about missed oportunities in your dreams?" Solas asks and his voice is solemn. He seems to be probably as affected as Meraad from what has transpired in this dream, but certainly not more._

_"I do not want to **kill you** , I am angry with you, there is a difference." Meraad scoffs under her breath, turning away from him and taking a few steps towards the cliff next to them in an attempt to survey the scenery before them._

_Solas saunters to the empty space next to her and he too averts his gaze to the landscape that she has chosen to watch. "It seems to me like you are more scared than you are angry, ha'falon." He declares, and suddenly can feel her widened stare on his face. "You looked afraid, Meraad."_

_"I am not aging," Meraad says._

_"You are not," Solas confirms._

_"I won't age." Meraad says._

_"You will not." Solas confirms._

_She says nothing further, so after a moment of them two looking at each other with sorrow and fear and sadness in their eyes, The Dread Wolf turns around and starts walking away towards the Eluvian as he had done in the actual moment of this dream's memory._

_Just as he had before, he halts to a stop._

_"I will give you time. I will be waiting. When you are ready, come to me, and we will talk." says Fen'harel, and dissapears into the archaic mirror._

With a stronger collision of carriage and stone, Meraad jolts awake to the roads leading to Kirkwall, her jerk startling the others accompanying her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to my miserable attempts at elvhen goes to Project Elvhen by FenxShiral  
> -  
> Viddasala -> one of the three leaders of the Ben-Hassrath  
> ha'falon -> old friend (elven)  
> Hakkon's Mercy -> a unique dagger from Razikale's Reach in the Frostback Basin
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> I love my slutquisitor to death.


	8. An Update: Changes and Reviews!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which i talk about my absence and the future of this fic

Hello everyone!

I know that I've been gone for a long time, and I'm really sorry for it. School turned out to be way more demanding than I thought it would and I ended up spending all of my waking hours drawing and could do little else. Then we found a new house in a little town an adjacent city and moved into it and now its vacation time for me (finally)! Sadly, I forgot what little chapters I could write in my computer in Italy, and so will not be able to update this fic until mid-September. Meanwhile I will proceed on reviewing and editing the chapters that I posted because I realized some mistakes when I re-read them, the most urgent was the last chapter in which I was extremely sleepy when writing it and accidentally wrote off Vivienne as the Divine which is not the case for this playthrough, but I fixed that now!

Thank you for your understanding, and if you're still here, for waiting me out patiently. I know that not many read this, but you who read it bring me so much joy and I wish to continue this so much!  
-Etugen


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